Many Times, Many Ways
by Milk and Glass
Summary: Song Two of the 2008 Christmas Songbook, based on "The Christmas Song". Charlotte hates Christmas and can't understand why Addison likes it, until one memorable moment in the OR where they connect. Song One can be found in the Grey's Anatomy section.


It starts with the mug, filled with neatly wrapped chocolate mints, sitting on your desk when you alight from the elevator onto the fourth floor at seven o'clock in the morning.

You're at work because you have nothing else to do. You betrayed him, fine, and for that, you're sorry. But what was it with him anyway? Was it purely sex or was it more? Did you want it to be more?

You, blonde bombshell that you are, with ribs that stick out and a proudly straight spinal column – you, who can run five miles in the rain and nurse shin splints in secret – you, who gulps at an inhaler when your childhood asthma acts up and cries when thunderstorms happen . . . you didn't need any emotional attachments. Because you, who are all of these things, like to think that you're too strong for it all.

But then he left, and refuses forgiveness, and shows that stubbornness that you've seen with difficult patients; that tenacity to stick to what's right no matter what his feelings, that you admired but now you hate – yeah, that stubbornness – and the rules have changed. All that emotional attachment? Happened anyway.

So, here you are, sitting, staring at a mug of wrapped chocolate mints and trying not to cry.

Only vaguely do you wonder who knows that you like chocolate mints and coffee enough to do this.

//~//

Holidays are here – everyone cheer! As if life wasn't bad enough, now you have to deal with Christmas, and it's not an easy time. Some people love the season (the ones on the fifth floor, perhaps?), but when you spent all your childhood Christmases dodging drunk parents and broken bottles, it's basically traumatic to hear the fifteen millionth version of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and see flashing lights and garish Santas. If you had your choice, and thankfully, most of the time you do, you choose to avoid the whole thing.

You've run into Addison Montgomery several times; you've given her surgical privileges at St. Ambrose and get more than just a professional kick out of her breathless, ruthless attitude towards cutting. Knowing her cool exterior when it comes to patients, you're actually surprised to learn that she's about the biggest holiday fiend there is.

"Yeah, she's decorated the entire fifth floor," quips Sheldon, coming in with a stack of papers. "Violet told me she did it last year, too."

You scoff. "Why? It's not like anyone ever lives in the office for the holidays. Unless it's me, that is," you finish, flipping through his paperwork. "Thanks."

"No problem. Anyway, it's a lot more festive up there. You know, they say that a little holiday cheer can brighten even the sickest person's life. We should consider getting a tree or something." His eyes widen at your expression. "Or, you know, not. Whatever."

"I hate Christmas. I do not want Christmas in my medical practice. Got it?"

"Yes, Dr. King." When he leaves the room, you breathe a sigh of relief, push the mug of candies aside, and bow your blonde head over paperwork guaranteed to provide enough busyness to last until you can't see anymore.

//~//

The fifth floor is indeed decorated to the nines. Although you know you're not really allowed up there, you're there to request patient records, and the receptionist, not knowing your reputation with Oceanside Wellness, hands them over with a sweet smile and no questions asked – that is, until Addison Montgomery catches on somehow and comes storming out from the back of the practice.

"Charlotte, are you nicking records AGAIN?" Her voice, modulated with patients and full of laughter with the right people, is annoyed and sharp with you. Surprisingly, you're not offended – you have never been able to be with someone without annoying them, so it's like second nature.

"Montgomery," you drawl, putting your strongest Southern inflection on the "gom", which never fails to make Addison's lips twist just a little more. "Actually, I was going to ask you a question about this patient in my hand, but I see you're drowning in Christmas up here."

Addison, instead of retorting, actually looks a little defensive. "I like the holidays. So do the patients."

"Mm-hmm. Someone apparently likes the holidays in my office, too. Anyway, if you're up for surgery, this woman needs a uterine ablation and I don't have any surgeons with privileges at St. Ambrose. Game?"

You know she can't refuse you, and after a minute, she smiles. "Yes, I'm game."

"Merry Christmas," you can't help interjecting, your words laden with sarcasm. You're hoping for a snarky retort as you steal a mint from the bowl on the counter, but Addison's eyes soften.

"Merry Christmas, Charlotte."

//~//

This time, there's a poinsettia on your desk. You're staring at it in confusion when Sheldon sticks his head in.

"I thought you hated Christmas."

"I do. I don't know who gave this to me. It's the second present in a week."

He shrugs. "I'm respecting the no-Christmas rule."

"Whatever." You wave him out and focus on your computer screen until he leaves. When you're sure he's gone, you balance the poinsettia on the window to catch the best light and leave for St. Ambrose.

//~//

Outside the Peds unit, you run into Cooper Freedman.

"Cooper."

"Charlotte." He's looking uncomfortable, his face closed, and you almost sweep right past him, but instead, you decide to reach out.

"Look, I've decided to let you have your stuff back, on the condition that we talk first. Please let me explain," you finish, hating the whine that's creeping into your voice. But you don't know how to do this, the communication thing, and you're hoping he's empathetic enough to get that and to help a little.

But he's having none of it. "You can Fedex it to me, or give it to Addison. I know she's around. I'm done, Charlotte. I was done when you decided not to trust me or confide in me. It was always more for me than it was for you, so I don't really get the sudden rush of communication."

You really don't know how to respond – and his brown eyes are so incredibly honest, asking you questions that you don't begin to know the answers to. And instead of being the adult – being the strong woman you portray – you just give up.

"Okay," you whisper. "I'm sorry."

And in another moment, you find yourself on a straight path to the OR, tears blurring your vision.

//~//

She's engrossed – you love to watch her work. Maybe that's where you connect; you can't seem to share feelings properly or have a friend to confide in, so you hold it all, and you let it out in quick spurts of tears in a scrub room or a gasping asthma attack brought on by stress, which is what's happening now.

You're on the edge of it – you feel the tightening in your chest; the feeling of trying to breathe through a straw getting thicker, and you grope for your inhaler even as you see Addison pull off her gloves, the surgery finished. But you're not fast enough, and when she comes out into the scrub room, you're grabbing the side of the metal sink, trying to get it enough under control to pick up the medication that's rolled under the water pedals.

She's deft – you'll give her that. In a moment, she's got the inhaler and she's holding it to your lips, using one hand to brush back your hair and the other to support your back as you breathe. Tears are streaming down your face by the end, and it's almost not fair how she remains so professional and cool when you can't keep it together enough to look after yourself.

"I didn't know you had asthma," she says, beginning to scrub out as if nothing's happened. You're still shaky, so you sit with a bump in the chair by the bathroom door and just nod.

"Yeah, it's not something I really broadcast."

She's staring into your eyes – and stupidly enough, it's like she can read you somehow, because her face softens and she sighs. "Charlotte, have you tried to talk to him?"

You're about to tell her to mind her own business when the floodgates break and the asthma threatens to come back as the sobs catch your already sore chest.

Her arms are strong; they're finely muscled and soft with whatever expensive lotion she uses. She might have surgeon's hands, slightly rough and chapped from the water, but at the core, she's still a woman who cares about her skin, and it's comforting when she strokes your hair and holds your pain, all at once, even though she doesn't have to and it's weird to even be in this situation.

You're cradled against her chest, so much smaller than she is and vaguely thinking how nice it is that you fit right under her chin when she speaks.

"It's hard when you're just not having a good time. When everyone else is, and you're not, and it's a time to be happy and cheerful, because if you're not, it's strange and you're the odd one out."

And then she tells you.

"When I got divorced, I went from loving the holidays to dreading them. I've never spent them alone. I couldn't fathom it. And now, I try too hard, to make it a special occasion, because who do I really have to share it with but my friends? Why shouldn't it be one day where people can be happy without conditions?"

And you get it. You sniffle, running a hand under your nose and grinning a tiny bit as the older woman hands you a Kleenex with a disgusted expression. Apparently comfort doesn't go that far.

"I'm sorry," you say, laughing a little, your voice foggy and raspy but the humour's still there and before you know it, you're putting yourself out there and touching your lips to hers, almost in a weird sense of desperation and acceptance, that there really could be someone out there who understands what constant pain is like.

Her kiss is soft; she holds you naturally and you end up listening to her heart quicken with your head against her chest.

After a moment, she speaks. "Did you get my presents?"

Her voice rumbles against your ear and you look at her incredulously. "What? That was you?"

And then she grins. "It was a dare from Sam – but I put the flower there myself because I know you like them. You always have a plant in your office."

"Yeah, I did like them. Thank you." And you mean it – despite the holiday hatred, you're warm to think that someone cared, even if it began with a dare. Happiness without conditions . . .

She smiles back. "Merry Christmas, Charlotte."

Many times, many ways – this time, it is.


End file.
